When Wounds Won’t Heal

This is a prayer for the long nights when hope feels thin and the house grows very quiet.

My soul feels dry, my hands ache from caring, my heart carries him in every beat.

The house is quiet now. Bandages folded and ready. Texted prayers read. Well-wishers gone and lights dimmed for the night.

But You remain. You are still here. You were here for every doctor’s visit—here when hope lifted and when it quietly fell.

You see the wound that will not heal. You see the skin trying to remember how to knit itself together.

And You see me—trying to be steady, trying to be brave, trying not to unravel.

This “winter” is not empty. You are with us. You are in the waiting room, in the surgeon’s words, in the fragile tissue and the frayed hope.

You are the One who was wounded. You know what it is to wear torn flesh.

So tonight, sit with me in the dark—not as a distant God, but as my comforting Abba Father.

Hold my grief the way You hold him.

Breathe warmth and rest into this weary heart.

And if healing must take time, let Your presence be the healing that holds us until his body can mend.

Leigh Fitz — 2026